


Visage

by etherati



Category: Watchmen
Genre: Character Study, Costume Kink, Dan's List of Kinks, Established Relationship, Graphic Sex, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Roche, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherati/pseuds/etherati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's just something about the hat...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visage

*

This isn’t the first time they’ve done this, not by a long shot, but it _is_ the first time it’s been anything other than base need and adrenaline rushing together into the vacuum left by all the violence, sharp and brilliant under the basement lights – need married with a basic mechanical understanding of what goes where, awkwardness matching urgency at every mark. It’s the first time Rorschach’s slammed Dan’s spine ramrod-straight to the wall, fingers curled into the meat of his shoulders, rutting hot and neurotic against his thigh, breath short and winding itself into tenuous sounds that break almost as they emerge. It’s the first time the ritualistic clumsiness has fallen away, the first time he’s seemed to really _want it. _

Dan groans, deep in his chest, in distinct pain where he’s hardened inside his cup but it comes with the white-hot awareness of _he really wants this_ and _he really wants** you**_ and the one burning almost subsumes the other. Almost. But he has to get the rest of his costume off before the pressure _kills him. _

Rorschach grinds in sharply against his leg, obviously hard as stone and straining just as badly against the constraints of his uniform, and there’s something giddy and disorienting in the way Dan can feel the size and shape and heat of him through so many obfuscating layers. Something in the way he knows exactly what’s going to happen next, and he can’t stop himself from hooking his free leg up over Rorschach’s hip, pulling him in closer even as he struggles in the diminishing space between them to unhook his belt, to shed the other half of his costume so that they can– so that Rorschach can–

A hard bite to the curve of his shoulder, teeth stinging and possessive through the latex. Dan hadn’t thought it was possible to sound more shamelessly wanton than he’d managed to this point and he’s about to bite the cry back when he realizes that the other half of it is vibrating out from under the lips sliding up his throat, humming against his skin and _he really wants this, as badly as you do_ and–

The motion has knocked Rorschach’s hat askew. It’s in danger of coming off completely.

Dan focuses through the haze of cutting, humid need for long enough to free one hand from his belt and reach to situate the fedora more securely on Rorschach’s head. He’s not even sure why it matters, but it’s–

Rorschach growls a warning, and his fingers rove and tighten, digging painfully into Dan’s hips. From under the downcast brim of the hat, the blots swirl and glower and intertwine suggestively, scandalously, and it feels like the gaze of divine judgment itself.

“Oh, god,” Dan mutters, shaking like a hundred volts have been put through him, in this cage of limbs and hot, lean body and the cool expanse of concrete behind him, arching away forever.

*

They’d slid to the ground in an undignified heap around the time Rorschach had gotten his second finger inside, glove leather soft and abrasive all at once where it scraped and twisted and hooked against his walls, pressure careful and precise and unforgiving – sending a swell of heat to make his head swim and his vision grey dangerously. He’d barely felt the crack his head made against the wall, no matter the way the sound of it had echoed.

Now Rorschach is braced over him, a tight thickness riding up inside of Dan like the weight of all the crimes they’ve ever committed in this bare, illicit space; and Dan would swear in this moment that he can feel every slicked, heated inch of him, can feel every pulse of blood in Rorschach’s veins, can feel every jump of nerves as if they were under his own skin, electricity arcing from flesh to flesh through the slippery, dizziness-dappled grip of sweat and exertion and fear and something, _something else_–

A sharp thrust that drives Dan’s eyes open and wide – he’s not sure when he’d closed them – and makes him cry out, something strangled and hoarse and not like himself at all but are either of them really themselves just now or is that the problem, is he _too much_ himself, only himself, no more layers left to retreat behind–

And Rorschach’s hat is shifting again, back against the base of his skull, jarred by the way he’s heaving himself against Dan, curling his back off of the floor with every thrust – fingers bony under his gloves clawed into the flesh of Dan’s ass. Chest, knees, chest in close contact, leather in between, brushing against his thighs and hips and latex burrowing into his throat, closing around his ear, his mouth, his collarbone; and always that unrelenting, invasive heat, and Dan doesn’t know which part of him’s being pushed out or what it’s making room for but it’s cathartic and beautiful and right.

But the fedora’s slipping, and it feels like it’s turning Rorschach inside out as it goes, flipping his layers around until he’s just a man in a mask, and the tails of the trench scrape over his bare skin and Dan is vulnerable like this, has no control over what this cleansing fire changes him into – he wishes he had his cowl, suddenly, and the thought makes him roll his hips up even harder against the assault, whorish and unashamed – but Rorschach shouldn’t be–

_Should_ be–

Hands scrabble at Rorschach’s head and the growl is back and he almost forgets what he’s doing for a moment, before his hands feel felt and ribbon and shift the hat back where it belongs, everything snapping back in an instant to that damning visage of disapproval and lust and _oh god, when did he learn how to do that_ and Dan is writhing like someone’s stuck a hot poker into the pleasure centers of his brain, setting every nerve off at once and searing them out and burning everything else away; then again, and again, and–

The hat slips to one side, teasing. Through his sensation-drugged daze, Dan frowns.

*

It happens three more times. It’s starting to get frustrating.

*

“Oh, for the love of god,” Dan finally grits out, and before Rorschach has a chance to even register the sudden tensing of muscle, bracing for movement, he’s used his size and weight to roll them over, hard. The mask puffs out over Rorschach’s face as the impact knocks the breath out of him, and Dan takes the opportunity to reach up and pull the damned fedora _firmly_ onto his head, only stopping when the latex starts to bunch under the band.

“_Daniel_,” Rorschach says sharply, but it’s really more Nite Owl than Daniel looming over him now, and there’s no reply at first – just weighty, hot hands pinning Rorschach down by his shoulders. A lifting, up and away, almost to the point of freeing Rorschach completely, before Dan drives himself down again, hard and fast.

“Daniel…” Rorschach repeats, but it’s a plea now, reedy and wavering.

“Hold _still_,” Dan grits out, and he could be on the streets, could be scowling down at some punk kid telling him to not move, to _stay down_, and his cock twitches where it’s caught, heavy and hot, between their bodies.

And Rorschach glowers and glares and _fights_, thrashing against a hold with too much weight behind it to break, and moans deep and low and broken when Dan sinks back onto him again, tightening around him just to drag the sound out, tease it out of him from someplace deep and secret. And all the while the brim of his hat slices through the flush-stirred blots and reinterprets them into something fierce and powerful and in control even when Rorschach isn’t, and suddenly _Dan_ feels like the criminal, the mugger, the errant lone Knot-Top caught away from his pack, withering under that imperious gaze that he somehow cannot connect to the hips bucking desperately underneath him–

Rorschach’s head tips forward, casting even more of that shifting and furious inhuman face in shadow, and he groans and scrabbles needy hands over Dan’s skin and tenses against him, inside him, and the air catches in Dan’s throat and he can’t _breathe_ – and he comes like being hit in the head with a tire iron.

*

When he wakes up, he’s alone – still naked, and the chill of the concrete floor is sinking into his bones like something with claws and nothing but poor intentions. But his head feels strange, bound, weighted; when he reaches one curious hand up it falls over felt and ribbon with easy familiarity, warmth still seeping out of the material.

His fingertips feel hot and light, and he isn’t sure why.

*


End file.
